


Of Sons and Darkness

by iamfitzwilliamdarcy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Courfeyrac's Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamfitzwilliamdarcy/pseuds/iamfitzwilliamdarcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His son is dead</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Sons and Darkness

The sun does its best to force its way through the cracks of the drawn shutters, but it doesn’t lighten the dim room much. The room’s sole occupant is seated at the desk, a piece of paper spread out before him. Though his fingers trace the impatiently scribbled “Dear Father” that serves as its salutation, he is not really seeing the letter, his gaze distant, his mind lost in memory. The house itself is abnormally still, as if it dared not even settle so as to disturb him. 

He hears the door of the room creak open, but it isn’t until the soft voice of his daughter calling “Papa?” reaches his ears that he glances up. She is wearing all black and her dark curls are gathered into a simple braid held together by a red ribbon. She is carrying a tray with food on it. “Papa, I brought you food.” she comes into the room, and he notices for the first time that her eldest brother, who was following her inside. “You should eat.”

“Father, you ought to open these.” His son pulls the shutters open as he speaks. “It’s awfully stuffy in here.”

“Thank you, darling,” he manages to his daughter, and his voice sounds hoarse.

She doesn’t notice because she was busy watching her brother, who is now leaning out of the window.

She opens her mouth to speak, but only gets out his name, “Ambroise,” before he says, without turning, “Geneviève, could you leave us please?”

She wrinkles her nose, looks as if she’s about to demand a reason why, before abruptly turning and leaving, the door shutting behind her. There is silence again save Ambroise’s fingers thumping against the wall.

He takes the time to look at his eldest son, his son who should not be here because he is past thirty (and has it truly been that long since?) and has moved out ages ago. He wonders why he hasn’t settled down with a nice girl, had children of his own, and suddenly wants nothing more than to ask, but he refrains. This isn’t the time or the place. His eyes turn back to the letter his fingers tracing the words again, words he won’t ever see from this hand anymore. “Dear Father.” He’s startled by a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the letter is gone.

“Oh Father,” Ambroise sighs from behind him. Ambroise is quiet a minute, and he thinks he is reading the letter. “Alexandre would hate all this.” Ambroise says after a minute.

He looks up then, into his son’s face. There’s a bruise on his cheek from where Francois had punched him the day before. It wasn’t often his sons really fought; they were a lot like puppies, the three of them, scuffling together and flopping down in a pile afterwards, even as they got much too old for such behavior; now, though, there were only two and there had been nothing playful about it.

He’d heard Ambroise’s voice drift up to him, angry and terse. He hadn’t been able to make out what Ambroise was saying so he’d gone to the window and pulled back the shutters just a little bit, so he could see and hear better. He’d only caught the words “selfish” and “stupid” from Ambroise before Francois’ fist had struck him across the jaw. Ambroise stumbled back, surprised (because who knew sweet, gentle Francois could hurt), and Francois had come after him, fists flying. Ambroise had caught them and the two struggled. He knew he should have intervened, called down at his sons to stop that instant, but he couldn’t do much of anything lately, much less fathering. It had ended soon after, anyway, with Francois sobbing into Ambroise’s arms. That’s when he returned to his desk, allowing the boys their privacy as they grieved.

“Hate what?” he asks, though they both know he, who had been so vibrant, would hate the gloom and the black clothing and the quiet, and Ambroise doesn’t bother to answer.

Eventually, he says, “He was stupid and selfish, you know.” But he’s not sure he believes it. Is it really selfish to forsake your family to help others, to sacrifice yourself for a cause you believe in regardless of who’s left behind in the wake? He doesn’t know anymore.

Ambroise’s cheeks flush. “You heard that?” Ambroise shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it. Not really. I was just angry with him. I still am.” He wishes, not for the first time, that he could be as well. He wants to be angry or sad, wants to feel something other than this emptiness, this numbness.

“He’s dead,” he says as way of response, and it’s almost refreshing, to say it out loud. It opens something in him and grief floods through him, relieving him of the emptiness he’s felt for so long. He chokes back a sob. His bright, energetic, passionate, darling son is dead.

“I know,” Ambroise’s voice is soft, his hand back on his father’s shoulder. They are quiet for a minute again, and then Ambroise speaks. “Cécile said the other day that we spoiled him. I rather think she was right.”

Of course he’d been spoiled, he thinks. Alexandre had been the baby and so terribly easy to love. He closes his eyes and can see him, aged 2, toddling to him after he returns from a trip . He scoops him up, and Alexandre places his chubby hands on his face before pressing a kiss to his father’s cheek in greeting. His father returns it, burying his face in the soft baby curls, before releasing Alexandre to chase after one of his siblings, his laughter drifting back to his parents (and his wife slips her arm through his and, smiling, says that the baby took after him).

He can see him, aged 7, cheerfully retelling his father the story of how he broke his arm earlier in the day, his gapped-tooth smile big enough to hide the traces of tears still on his face. His wife is there, eyes tired but smiling, as she tells him that that boy would be the death of her (and she couldn’t have possibly known what he’d do to her, couldn’t have known that her hair had grayed because of him, couldn’t have known that this would have felt like death itself).

He can see him, aged 13, hands on his hips, pouting because he isn’t allowed go to Paris with Geneviève and Margot; his face brightens, though, when his father produces a new book for him to read.

He can see him, aged 17, all packed and on his way to Paris for school, laughing through the tears that stream down his cheeks, still rounded by the baby fat he, despite his rambunctious pursuits, never managed to fully lose, as he hugs his family goodbye.

He can see him, aged 21, the last time he sees him, actually, showing his two friends the house where he’d grown up and teasing his sisters. He remembers that he had passed his room that night, on his way to bed, and overheard talks of a republic. His first reaction isn’t even anger or annoyance but fear because those who get mixed up in republics often end up dead. He thinks, now, that maybe he should have interrupted that discussion.

He’d always been vibrant, full of life, spreading more light than the sun itself, and now he is gone, still and cold.

He breaks out of his memories only when Ambroise speaks again. “Please eat, Father. Maman and the girls are worried.” He presses a kiss to his father’s head and adds, “I’d better go check on Margot; she’s been rather quiet lately. Are you alright?”

He presses Ambroise’s hand and nods so that the boy leaves, the door shutting behind him. It’s not fair, he knows, to place so much responsibility on Ambroise’s shoulders when he is grieving the death of his brother, but he’s not entirely sure how to lead his family through this. He thinks he should have been prepared for this; Alexandre had always been vocal about his beliefs and never the type to do anything half-way. His passion wouldn’t allow that.

He picks at the food and tries to eat, but he’s suddenly crying, the first time since he heard of the rebellion in Paris, when he knew for certain that Alexandre had been there. His son is dead and Monsieur de Courfeyrac’s world is so much darker.


End file.
